


Table for Three

by glitterburn (orphan_account)



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Community: kink_bingo, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-20
Updated: 2011-07-20
Packaged: 2017-10-21 14:27:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/226207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/glitterburn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael's getting too old for this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Table for Three

The restaurant is half empty. Michael is shown to his table by a maitre d’ who smiles too much. He’s aware of the ripple of interest his appearance makes as he passes through the room. This is the kind of place where diners won’t come over and bother him, but they’ll certainly look at him. He wonders what they’re thinking when they glance his way, when they set their stares in his direction.

 _That’s Michael Schumacher, seven times world champion_ , or perhaps: _There’s that old guy who should retire already._

It doesn’t matter that the old guy who should retire already is also a seven times world champion. You’re either one thing or the other; in this life, you can’t be both. Michael knows that. It doesn’t make it any easier.

He sits at the table, arranges the linen napkin across his lap, studies the silverware. The grinning maitre d’ hands him the wine list. Michael waves it away and requests mineral water. He wants to keep a clear head for this meeting. Nico suggested it, Nico arranged it. Nico should be here to greet him, but instead he’s sitting here alone, watched by a dozen pairs of judging eyes.

Michael inhales his impatience and picks up the menu. It’s the usual overpriced dishes prepared in the usual pretentious ways and given fancy names to justify the price tags. None of them are particularly appealing. Michael has a sudden hankering for a dish of good, solid food. Simple German food, not these delicate offerings of fusion cuisine or whatever it’s called.

Perhaps he really is getting old. Michael sighs and reads the menu again.

Ten minutes later, he’s finished one glass of water and could recite the menu in his sleep. The maitre d’ is no longer smiling and the other patrons now regard Michael with amusement or pity. But Michael knows how to behave in public. He shows no sign of impatience or embarrassment. He checks his phone once. No text message, no email. He calls Nico’s number but keeps the phone on the table. He doesn’t want to hold it to his ear. That would make him look desperate. So he calls the number and watches the ‘unavailable’ message flash up on the screen.

Perhaps he should be worried, but the overwhelming emotion is anger. He doesn’t like wasting his time. Michael slips the phone back into his pocket. Three more minutes. He’ll wait that long, and then he’ll leave, and the maitre d’ will stop looking so appalled.

Time ticks by with agonising slowness. He adjusts the watch on his wrist, prepares himself to stand up, and then Nico hurries in, a shock of brightness in these dreary surroundings.

“Sorry.” Nico slips into the chair beside him, skin flushed and hair slightly mussed. There’s the faintest sheen of perspiration on his top lip and at his hairline. Michael leans closer and catches the tangy scent of sweat beneath. He wonders what Nico’s been doing. Running? Maybe. Fucking? Very probable. His mind wanders, presents him with images of Nico laid out naked and open, sweat glistening down his back, cock hard and red and leaking, eyes dark with lust as he awaits his lover.

“Hope you weren’t waiting too long,” Nico continues, and Michael snaps out of it, gives a smooth smile and answers of course not, he hadn’t been here long at all.

Nico gives him a sunny smile and moves his chair closer. There’s a perfectly good menu right in front of him, but it seems that he wants to share Michael’s. They look through it together, and Michael’s attention isn’t on the printed words on the page but on the brush of Nico’s leg against his own, the soft touch of Nico’s bare arm against his hand, the intoxicating fresh scent of Nico’s sweat mixed with something else—not cologne, nor the musk-hint of sex, but something else, something familiar. He longs to ask Nico where he was, why he was late, but that would be giving away too much of himself, and Michael remains silent.

The maitre d’, smile restored, comes over. Michael orders in English. Nico orders in French, and that spark of irritation is back. Michael frowns, blocks out the fluid, musical sound of Nico’s Monégasque accent. He doesn’t want to be reminded of their differences. They’re both German, yet of course Nico isn’t German at all. He’s many things, and Michael feels small in comparison, the way he’s felt for most of this season; most of last season, too, if truth be told. Out-qualified, out-driven—Nico has done better than him, is still doing better than him, and it pisses Michael off: a seven times world champion can’t beat a kid who hasn’t even won one race.

Nico continues talking, and his voice has changed now. The sound of the maitre d’ snapping his fingers brings Michael out of his reverie. He glances up, bewildered when a waiter hurries to obey the summons. Porcelain and cutlery is brought, an extra glass set, and a third place is laid out immediately to Michael’s left.

Michael turns to Nico, the obvious question on the tip of his tongue, but again he stops himself. He doesn’t want to be placed in a position of ignorance. Instead he lifts his eyebrows.

Nico ignores the silent question. He just smiles and puts his elbow on the table, tilts his head into his hand to prop himself up. It’s a very casual pose, casual and careless, just like his clothes, and Michael wants to tell him to sit up straight, to stop slouching. He resists the temptation, because he doesn’t want to treat Nico like a child, like his son, because what he feels for Nico is far from paternal. No, it’s a strange mix of irritation and lust and envy, and none of those are good things. They’re all emotions that are beneath him, a seven times world champion, but he still feels them biting.

The waiter brings Nico a drink and sets a plate of crostini in the centre of the table. Michael is annoyed that the crostini weren’t brought out for him while he was waiting, but he pushes that aside and takes a piece.

Nico sips at his drink, his gaze watchful over the rim of the glass. He puts it down. “I thought we should meet to clear the air,” he says. “Things have been getting rather tense recently. I think we should discuss it.”

“Okay.” Michael helps himself to another crostini. He’s never seen the value in talking about anything. He prefers to let his actions speak for him. Perhaps he’s too old-fashioned, or perhaps he’s too accustomed to race-day double talk, where a loss can be turned into a victory, layers of bullshit piled up to a stinking mess that no one believes yet everybody buys because it’s easier than admitting the truth.

“I’m still not happy that you took my number last year,” Nico says when it becomes obvious that Michael isn’t going to start the conversation.

Michael sighs. “Not that again. You said you understood. It’s just a superstition. I feel better in odd-numbered cars.”

“ _Just_ a superstition,” Nico echoes, with emphasis. “I did understand. I still do. I have superstitions, too. Perhaps you should consider mine as well as your own. That’s why it’s still bothering me. The amount of self-interest, the lack of—”

“That’s why I did it,” Michael says. “To get at you. To throw you off-balance.”

Nico gives a ghost of a smile. “Didn’t work on-track, did it? And now you’re bothered by me out-qualifying you. Since neither of us are finishing where we should, where we’d like, qualifying is the only thing that matters, right?”

Michael is silent, thinking. Competitiveness seems more ridiculous the older he gets, but he can’t let go of it. He remembers the sense of freedom the last time he quit F1, but the desire to beat the world was stronger. And now, since his comeback, it’s his pride that’s hurt.

He’s waited too long to answer, so when he says “It doesn’t matter. Not at all. The important thing is the team”, Nico laughs.

“The team!” The look Nico shoots him is full of patronising amusement. He shakes his head. “The team. I never thought I’d hear you say that outside of a media interview. You must be worried.”

Anger blinkers Michael for a moment. He reaches out, grabs Nico’s wrist. He wants to shake some sense into him. Then he recalls where they are, and when he lets go, begins to apologise, he realises Nico wasn’t even looking at him. Michael was gripping his arm tight and Nico was paying him absolutely no attention whatsoever.

Shock runs through him. Michael feels embarrassed and small. He tries to regroup, aware that Nico is leaning forward across the table in greeting. Belatedly, Michael looks around to see Mika strolling easily towards them, the waiter following with their dishes.

“Mika!” Michael is more surprised than delighted. “Please sit. Join us.”

Mika is already pulling back the chair and sitting down, exchanging a few words in Finnish with Nico. Michael frowns. Nico always says he can’t speak much Finnish, yet here he is having a conversation. Michael fusses, tries to catch Mika’s attention. “Are you hungry? We already ordered—” this much is obvious from the fact that their lunch is on the table in front of them, “but we can wait...”

Mika picks up a fork and helps himself to some of Michael’s dish. “I’m not hungry,” he says, apparently unaware of the contradiction. “I ate already. I just wanted to catch up. Relive the Mercedes commercial with all of us actually in the same place.” He sets down the fork and gives a crooked smile.

Michael glances at Nico, sees the look he exchanges with Mika. There’s an undercurrent of amusement, and Michael suspects it’s at his expense. Annoyed, he draws in a breath and starts eating.

Nico abandons his knife, swaps his fork into his right hand, and picks at his food. A moment later, his left hand descends onto Michael’s knee. A heartbeat after that, Mika’s right hand drops to Michael’s thigh.

Michael freezes.

“I don’t think I’ve eaten here before,” Mika says, glancing around the restaurant. His fingers slide down, digging into the inside of Michael’s thigh, forcing him to spread his legs. “It seems nice. How’s the food?”

“You just ate some,” Michael responds, proud of how normal he sounds. “You tell me.”

“I eat here quite often,” Nico offers. His hand travels the length of Michael’s thigh and comes to rest on his knee. Nico strokes over the kneecap, and Michael wants to kick out in reflex. He shudders, fighting the urge, shifting in his seat to draw his right leg back and away from Nico’s stroking fingers; but the movement pushes his left leg closer to Mika, who runs his hand up and over Michael’s thigh towards his crotch.

“So you invited Michael here to discuss some team things?” Mika’s air of innocence wouldn’t fool a five year-old. Michael hopes there aren’t any five year-olds in the immediate vicinity. Not when Mika’s hand has delved between Michael’s thighs to stroke at his balls through the softened denim of his jeans.

Michael takes a deep breath that sounds more like an urgent gasp than anything else. He’s hard, his erection poking into the zipper. He needs to adjust his cock before the pressure gets too painful, but instead he clings to his knife and fork, his knuckles going white with effort.

“Personal things,” Nico says, hand brushing over Michael’s cock, shaping the shaft through the strained denim with his forefinger and thumb. “It’s very sad when teammates don’t agree. It’s unfortunate for the team, don’t you think so?”

“Absolutely.” Mika’s fingers are now flirting with Michael’s zip, tugging it down, drawing it back up. “When David and I were teammates, we were very clear with each other. Very open. There was resentment, of course there was, but also respect. This is important. You see teams these days, there is no respect. Webber and Vettel, for example. Fernando and Felipe. I don’t know what these teams are doing. These guys need to be more open. Express themselves.”

“Mark did express himself,” Nico says. “Several times.”

“But still he stays with the team.” Mika wrinkles his nose. “Stupid. He is angry with them, resents them, but he doesn’t leave. Desire to win beats back the knowledge that they won’t let him. Competitiveness is very stupid, I think.”

“That’s so true.” Nico palms Michael’s cock, grinds down hard with the heel of his hand. “That’s why I wanted to talk to Michael. See if we could reach an agreement. I don’t want Mercedes to be as toxic a working environment as Red Bull.”

Mika makes a sound of agreement. They both look at Michael as if waiting for his opinion. Beneath the table, their hands work in unison, stroking, rubbing.

Michael doesn’t think he can take any more. Sweat prickles his sides and his hands are cramping, so tight is he holding his cutlery. He’s horribly aware of the other diners, feels certain that they’re all staring, watching him being teased in public. He wonders when Nico planned this, or if it was Mika’s suggestion all along. How far were they willing to take it? Did they expect him to come right here at the table? Was that what they were waiting for?

He’s not going to beg. He has more pride than that. He does. Really, he does.

“Maybe,” he says, voice shaking and breathless, convictions crumbling, “we should take this someplace else. All three of us.”

Nico and Mika look at each other, considering for a long moment.

“Maybe,” says Nico.

“Maybe not,” Mika says. He removes his hand from Michael’s lap, gets to his feet, and lifts his chin at Nico in silent command. Then he smiles at Michael, silvery eyes gleaming. “Two’s company. Three’s a crowd.”

Nico smothers a laugh as he stands and follows Mika. Michael stares at Nico’s half-eaten food and doesn’t know if he’s angry because they teased him and left him frustrated, or if it’s because of Nico’s wastefulness.

Maybe he is too old. Maybe it’s time to retire for good.


End file.
